end of senior year scraps

i want to trace your body with the tip of my nose and the print you leave on me.

i want to hide from the world in the hollow beneath your jaw, my cheek against the soft skin of your neck, and feel your artery pulsing softly on my forehead.

all i can do is stroke my shoulders like you would, slowly, savoring the smoothness of my skin, and remind myself of you.

scalp to aching nape
gracing with age…

sitting in a room that groans with the wind as the thunderstorm surrounds it and i can smell the rain and feel the power of it cause the room to shake, sitting here (vulnerable, all-knowing) as the rain washes away the footprints we left as we walked on concrete beneath the stars, and i wish you were here that we might groan and shudder together, silent beneath the roar of the storm.

it must be spring.

it will end one day. perhaps in a few months, maybe in a year or two.

so i must stand on the flat plain of life and turn toward the rushing wave of inevitability, relaxed, standing tall, with the faintest hint of a smile, and wait for that which will engulf me. [fuck man that’s one extended metaphor]

it’s like stopping + waiting for the dahaka.
(funny how a video game and be so true, sometimes)
i don’t want to lose him. i’m scared of being on my own. but i’ll have to do it because of that, won’t i?

is our love real enough?
it feels real, but there is no sure sign.
(remember Blankets)
(remember Annie Hall)
(remember A Farewell to Arms)
nothing lasts, and your heart will break.
how do you expect us to live under these conditions?
how do you expect us to ever risk love?
(because we’d do it anyway.)

tread lightly on my dreams…

i love you, i think. i miss you.

do i hurt because i’m lonely or because i hurt anyway?
you told me to never doubt the fact that you love me, and even though i’m holding onto that, i’m wondering if it’s really true.

are we meant to be together?

(the happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story)

why do i feel like this?

i never realized before what a hero don quijote is.
moving in a world that should be real but isn’t
(the ancient horse glorified,
the servant girl a princess)

sure as the dawn…

i wonder what will happen to us, to me.

may i be mindful of you.

and the rain’s hard fingers flicker over me,
prickling my scalp
as i walk steadily to [the] cliff from which
i may fall or fly,
depending upon the nature of the winds
and of my wings.

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